


The Five Orange Days

by bunghoney



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunghoney/pseuds/bunghoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the tumblr #letswritesherlock tag. Plain, simple Johnlock getting together story with angst-o-rama coming up. Canon, set somewhere approximately in between the series. Semi-case fic, but that's more of a background for the Johnlock to play against, rather than the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DAY 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's the 1st chapter out of 5, this one is pretty much about the challenge:
> 
> "After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…"

"I do not understand why you insisted on coming along in the first place. As you very well know, I prefer to operate on my own as any company clouds the mind as one tries to work. People! Of what use are they?"

John didn't answer, but instead turned his head towards the window. The taxi was traveling quite fast through the dark town, and as he watched the streets light of London flicker by he tried to not take the remark too personally. It was hard, especially since there was no one in the car but himself and Sherlock.

"Well," John said, still looking out the window, "as part of my defence, I have to point out that it wasn't exactly me who stood staring by my bedside in the middle of the night and said it was of uttermost importance that we went to the morgue right now, one o'clock in the morning."

"Please. I did not hear you protest, either.” 

“No, right, no, you didn't. That, though, may have had something to do with you at the same time testing the hypothesis that any person can breathe through a pillow for at least a minute.”

“An hypothesis proven to be correct.”

“Very grateful for that. But, you know, adding an asphyxiation touch to an awakening doesn't generally put people in a good mood for midnight trips to the morgue.”

“Obviously not. From the way you first uselessly paced around the laboratory and then did everything in your power to kill every single one of my theories, I got the impression that your primary purpose with accompanying me was to enjoy the thrill of shooting down my work."

"Sherlock, the very reason you bring me on your cases is your poor skills in medicine, the whole idea with having me is that I point out if you've missed something! And I stand by my conclusion: she was very overweight, yes, but her knees couldn't just have given in the way you suggested. Knees don't do that, they don't just… bend backwards. She was no horse, you know."

The last thing John added to try and lighten Sherlock up a little, but he didn't take the bait. 

"And how do you know of such things? Are you now also a veterinary? Dr. Watson, vet and vet, two titles in one. How convenient."

Sherlock huffed and demonstratively turned his back on him. 

John sighed. You didn't have to be Sherlock to deduce that Sherlock was cross because he 1. had failed to make progress, and 2. hadn't eaten in almost 24 hours. Lately, though, John had found that - even though he'd rather die than admit it - one could comfort Sherlock by gently touching him. Testing his theory, John stretched out his hand to pat Sherlock's shoulder. But Sherlock hastily pulled away from him like an animal, clutching at his arm.

“What? Sherlock, are you hurt? Why didn't you tell me?”

“No need. You can't fix it now, can you.”

“But you're obviously in pain. Let me have a look at it.”

“You can't do anything about it at the moment. Don't make me repeat myself a third time.”

John tried to lean in over Sherlock to have a closer look, and then he felt it: although through some wonder Sherlock had managed to hide it under his coat, it was obvious that there was blood somewhere on his body. Being close to him, John could feel the iron thick smell of it. He sniffed. 

“Please tell me that is not a gun shot that you've tried to ignore, or worse, tried to 'fix' yourself. I have told you: it's really not a good thing to stop blood flow with used dish gloves...”

“No. The blood isn't mine.”

“Really? Who's is it, then? I hope it's not contaminated somehow.”

“It comes from a dead parrot. A very large parrot. That was healthy. I think.”

John groaned and covered his face in his hands. 

A few minutes went by in silence, but as they passed a road work the car jumped a little, which caused Sherlock's arm to move unexpectedly. He squeezed his eyes shut in an ugly grimace.

“Hey. Sherlock. Seriously. You want me to hold it for you?” John looked pretty worried now. God, he really hoped that arm wasn't broken - Sherlock would be such a pain in the ass if incapacitated for weeks.

“What?” Sherlock gritted out between his teeth. 

“Your arm. Do you need me to hold it in place while we're still in the car?”

“I need you to say that kneecaps can bend backwards at 180 degrees. Otherwise, I don't need you for anything.”

John swallowed hard. He was trying to say “it's mutual”, but somehow he couldn't get it out. God, he wished they were home soon. 

God, though, seemed to be out of office because before John had finished that thought the taxi slowed down, though it was still about ten minutes left until they would reach Baker Street. The crossing ahead of them was jammed with people that seemed to be cheering and clapping, many of them were wearing orange t-shirts, shorts and jogging shoes. Some tables, covered in what looked like refreshments of different kinds were put out across the street, effectively blocking the taxi's pathway. 

“Sorry, lads,” their driver said over her shoulder, “I had forgotten about the midnight marathon that is held today. I'm afraid we'll be standing here for a few minutes.”

“Wrong pronoun,” Sherlock said and opened the door. “You might be standing here for a while. I, on the other hand, will absolutely not.” Before John could protest, Sherlock had thrown himself out of the taxi heading for the crowd. John quicky excused himself, opened his own door and hunted after Sherlock. 

"Hopefully, she won't hunt us down and kill us for not paying," he panted as he tried to keep up with Sherlocks strides," but, I guess, that could be a case for you: the cabbie killing the detectives."

"Detective. There is certainly no plural detectives here," Sherlock said, eying the crowd.

John tried to pretend he didn't hear it.

“Why couldn't you wait just a few minutes? We were about to leave!” he said instead. 

“As you very well know, I do not like to waste my time. I despise waiting in itself, and at the same time I spotted something that caught my interest.”

“What? Here? Why?”

"There. Legs clearly showing signs of giving in." Sherlock said. 

He was pointing towards a very large woman that was standing a few feet from them. But they were now nestled deep into the crowd, with John effectively jammed between a body builder and a woman with a child in her arms (what would a child do awake at this unchristly hour?) and since being a great deal shorter than his colleague, he couldn't see what Sherlock was pointing at. 

"Sorry, can't see a thing from here…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Why won't you grow taller? It is very impractical with such sort friends, even though it does come with the benefit of giving the impression that I am of a certain height. Give me your phone!"

"What? Why?"

"Because it has more megapixels than mine, and since science still has not succeeded with coming up with the eminent function of 'enhance' that fact is of importance for the amount of detail in the picture I aim to capture. Stop asking irrelevant questions."

John handed over his phone to Sherlock, who shamelessly pointed it at the woman, zoomed in her legs and took a picture of her. 

"There? You see? " Sherlock shoved the phone up in John's face. 

"Well, no… I still won't tell you that it is possible that human knees bend backwards, not unless they have been brutally massacred with a sledgehammer, and I told you, no such thing has happ---"

“Ouch!” A person from the crowd had bumped into Sherlock.

"Oh, sorry!" a man, who looked slighty tipsy, said. "Didn't really have full control over my step, there," he added, smiling at Sherlock.

"Member of humanity, watch where you're going, or I will have you brutally executed on orders from my own brother," Sherlock bit back at him. 

John saw him clutching his arm tightly to his chest whereupon he gently tried to pull Sherlock closer to him, away from the man Sherlock had just threatened. Sherlock relaxed just a tiny bit into him and John tried to not think of that it was almost a hug. 

"Hey, easy there, mate..." the man said, backing off and looking slightly frigthened. 

"Just leave, I'll make sure he won't set after you," John waived his hand at the man who took his advice and disapperared, very fast. 

“Sherlock, really, please let me have a look at that,” John continued, turning to Sherlock. “Maybe is just disjointed, and that's easily fixed, but if broken, you know you'll have to go to the hospital eventually.”

“I do not have time to carry around a broken arm,” Sherlock said. “It will grow back, bones have that capability, right?”

“Well, yes... But they don't just grow back they way you like, they grow back they way they like, and those are not always in sync... You know, you may very well end up with an arm looking like a cheez doodle.”

“I will always have a portable snacks bar, then.”

“Oh, come on, it's probably easily fixed, let me help you.”

“That's what you said about this case, too: 'I will help'”. Sherlock made a face. “So far you have done nothing but being negative. I do not need any help, not with this arm, nor with this case.”

John sighed. “Okay, fine,” he said. “But don't expect me to make tea for you for the rest of your life, oh, no, wait – I already do that. Let's just... go home.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, John being too exhausted to fight with this shrewish, troublesome Sherlock, and Sherlock too sulky to even throw further malevolences at John. 

Twenty minutes later, they arrived Baker Street, Sherlock still moody and still clutching his arm. John was in a pretty grim state of mind, too, he knew he should have just give up on his stupidly stubborn friend, but the doctor in him said absolutely no. He had to have a look at that shoulder before Sherlock went to bed. 

By experience, John knew that Sherlock usually lightened up a little if he got some food, because no matter what Sherlock himself stated his blood sugar ran as low as everybody else's and if John could just manage to make him eat something, he would probably give in. 

As they entered the flat, Sherlock didn't undress but dramatically - as dramatically as possible with a hurting arm - flopped himself onto the sofa. He pulled up his collar to partly cover his face, the only thing showing above it was his furrowed brow. He looked much like a five year old who didn't get the long wanted fire fighter car that he had wished for his birthday.

“Right, I'm making tea,” John said, “would you like some?”

It was no surprise that Sherlock didn't answer. 

John sighed and turned to the kitchen. When re-entering the living room with steaming tea and some dry biscuits, he tried again: 

"Sherlock. Seriously. Come on, I've made some tea. Just drink it, will you? And you should let me have a look at your shoulder. Really, I'm only trying to be your friend here. You could use a friend."

Sherlock was now spread out of the sofa, glaring at the ceiling. He was clutching his arm to his chest and his dark curls were all rumpled, underneath them the forehead shiny with sweat. John wouldn't be surprised if he ran a fever. Sherlock didn't turn to John as he spoke: 

"As I said: I do not need anyone. Please! If I wanted somebody to bring me tea and biscuits I would turn to Mrs. Hudson. She will probably be able to handle a wordpress interface, too, given the proper education."

And that was it. John froze in the middle of the room. The final sentence made something fragile inside him crack a little. He swallowed audibly. Then, he silently put down the tray with the tea and biscuits on the carpet in front of him. 

"Right."

For a brief moment, John silently watched Sherlock, who seemed to have no intent of either moving nor speaking at all. John blinked, and slowly turned his back against Sherlock. He took his jacked from the coat hanger, opened the door and left. 

Sherlock didn't move. 

*****

John hurried down the street with a pooling feeling in his stomach. He had no idea where to go, really, and he knew he shouldn't take Sherlock's mood swings as a personal insult, but he couldn't really fight the feeling of being, well, really hurt. And a great deal insecure.

Was it really true that Sherlock didn't want him around anymore? That he could cope with the cases on his own? Technically, he had done that for many years, before John entered his life, but John couldn't help thinking that he had actually made some, although small, difference in Sherlock's life... Maybe that was a stupid thing to believe. Maybe Sherlock was honest, of course he was, Sherlock couldn't lie, maybe he didn't need any help at all? And where would that make John stand? The past year, he had grown very fond of Sherlock, and to be honest, he hadn't got much else left in life. His entire being was now tightly entwined with Baker Street, with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, with Lestrade, Molly and even... Mycroft. 

So. It hurt. It hurt like bloody hell. Why did Sherlock have to be so... backwards? Why didn't he let anybody in? The way John saw it, he'd really been trying to show Sherlock his affections, maybe in a shy and laddish kind of way, but still. Wasn't the single fact that he was still staying at Baker Street a sign of true companionship? Mrs. Hudson had once said that no one else but John could stand Sherlock for more than a day. But it didn't seem like there was a real way to reach out to him. John sometimes wished that he could just scoop Sherlock up in his arms and... no. He didn't even finish that sentence. That would just be totally inappropriate. 

John kept walking. Ironically enough, it had started to rain so the whole scene of loss and hurt and longing was framed by bad weather. He had to go somewhere inside before he was all soaked. It was wednesday night and pretty late, closer to three in the morning if he wasn't mistaken, which didn't leave him many options. 

Before John left London for the war, in his early twenties, he was actually a bit of a club kid, a habit he hadn't resumed since now considering himself sligthly too old for such activities. His clubbing days were almost ten years ago, but if he wasn't mistaken they still hadn't shut down a place that had been one of his favourites, located in a basement by Marleybone road. They usually held open at weekdays, and God, he could really use a drink right now. 

The door creaked a little as he entered his old club. The place was kind of small. A little bar were at each end of the room, both covered in blue lights. In the middle, there were a couple of leather clad booths, all of them empty tonight, but you could easily picture them on a crowded night. Behind the booths, there were mirrors on the wall. John could clearly see himself – looking rather tired. 

A lot of pleasant and less pleasant memories washed over him as he looked around the well-known place again for the first time in over ten years – God, over there Freddy had been dead drunk and thrown up all over John, and by that bar Jim more than once had tried to pick up a friend of his, and over there, in that corner, John had had one of the most exciting snogging sessions in his life. He blushed a little at the memory.

But tonight, the place was kind of empty. John took a stool at the nearest bar and ordered what a lonely man in a bar always order – a whiskey. 

A couple of minutes later, another thing that always happens to lonely men frequenting empty bars in stories happened: an to him unknown, pretty good looking woman approached him. 

“Hello there, stranger,” the red haired woman said. “How come you're here? Let me guess: had a fight with the girlfriend?” She smiled at him. A friendly, sweet smile. 

John smiled back. 

“Not quite. But with a friend. My flatmate,” he said. “Needed some space from him.”

“Well, I see. Do you mind?”

The woman did a gesture at the empty stool besides John.

“Please,” he said. “Have a seat. I could use some company.”

“I'm Amanda. Amanda Snow,” the woman said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“John Watson. Pleasure to meet you too.”

John ordered two more beers, and then everything expected happened. Amanda told him she was american but had been living in London for five years now, John spoke about his work at the clinic, Amanda told him she loved race cars, John ordered more drinks, Amanda spoke about her boss' annoying accent, John told her about the loss of his grand mother, Amanda ordered more drinks, John explained why he once nurtured an abandoned perser cat back to health, Amanda spoke of her fear of heights, John ordered more drinks, Amanda admitted she once voted for George W. Bush (but regretted it deeply) and John recited his favourite Shakespeare sonnet while Amanda ordered more drinks. 

When John started to shamelessly brag about his years in Afghanistan, Amanda looked him in the eye, downed her last whiskey and took his hand. Together they left the club, jumped in the nearest taxi and headed for her place. 

*****

“Would you like some tea?” Amanda asked from the kitchen.  
“Yes, please,” John answered. “Two sugars, please.”

John was sitting in the living room, a little bit tense. The sofa was big and fluffy, it felt like he was almost disappearing into it, and he tried to sit on just the edge, probably leaving him looking a little stupid. He let his eyes wander around the room. It reminded him a little of Baker Street: enormous piles of paper and books and god-knew-what-items were strewn all over the place. The walls were covered with official diplomas of different kinds, it seemed like she had been working for the FBI, or maybe the CIA, when she lived in the US. 

“So... where were we?” Amanda handed him a steaming cup of tea. “You said were a doctor, in Afghanistan? Do you still have your doctor's licence?”

John noticed Amanda had positioned herself quite close to him on the sofa. And God, wasn't she eying him upside down? He felt a little uncomfortable. Was he really about to do this? How long had it been since he had... uh, well, a very long time ago. He hastily broke the gaze and had a large gulp of his tea.

“Yes, yes, I do. I'm allowed to return to the army if I want to, but I don't think I ever will... Having a little trouble with the shoulder and all, as I told you,” he answered, looking down at his hands. 

“But you actually can return to Afghanistan, if you wanted to?”

“Yes, that's no problem. I have a visa for as long as the UK has a presence there.”

“Did anyone ever question you at the airport?” Amanda asked. 

“Sorry, what?”

“When you travelled to Afghanistan. Did they ever question your identity?”

John blinked. He had started to feel a little dizzy. It was really late and he hadn't slept much lately. He shook his head a little and had another pretty large gulp of his tea. 

“No... not that I can remember. Why would they?”

“Oh, no reason, I was just wondering if the ID checks were really hard. You know, with the terrorist threat looming over us nowadays and everything.”

“Uh, no, no I don't think so.” John yawned. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he added. 

“And you're all British? You were born in Britain?”

“Yes, yes I am. How come? Do you have something against, uh, australians or something?” he tried to joke, but it came out feeble. God, he was seriously dizzy now. Had to get some air.

“I'm sorry, Amanda, but is there a bathroom around? Would you excuse me for a second? ”

“Yes, there is, but no, I won't excuse you.”

“What? Sorry?”

“No, I need you to stay here. Sit down.”

John felt Amanda's arms holding him in place as the world started to spin.

Then it all went black.  
***** 

A long time after John left, Sherlock turned his head towards the abandoned tea and biscuits. He slowly rose from the sofa, gracefully folded his legs and settled in front of the tray. He chose a small biscuit. He slowly chewed on it. Pretty dry, probably more than two weeks old, he concluded. Somewhat crusty. With his left hand, he poured a small cup of the now cold tea. He considered the shoulder situation. Thinking about it, the arm was probably just disjointed as John had suggested, but one could never know. Slowly, he traced over the swelling with his fingers. Yes, very likely disjointed. Very likely fixable. Sherlock took a deep breath, gritted his teeth together and then, with a fluid motion of his left hand, pushed the arm back in place.

The immediate pain caused sweat to break out on his forehead, but the fact that the feeling quickly faded away proved him right – nothing was broken. Sherlock ate all of the remaining biscuits and drank the tea.

After a few minutes, he started to feel better, more calm. He wondered where John might have gone, he had been away for over three hours now and the rain was pouring down quite heavily. Well, he would probably be in soon, he could never stand being away for long after their little... disagreements. Well, it was mostly John who had disagreed with Sherlock, but all the same. 

Sherlock rose to his feet and fetched John's laptop. He did a quick search on how people's joints were constructed, but couldn't make his theory match up with reality. He tried to find pictures that would support his hypothesis, but Google wouldn't provide him with adequate material. After having had a few deterrent detours in the dark corners of the internet - Sherlock had, for instance, unwillingly found out what 'feeder's porn' was – he remembered the picture he had captured with John's phone. 

Sherlock reached for his own mobile and sent a text:

_Need picture of fat woman. Have kneecaps lead. We're also out of milk. /SH._

Since they had had the little... disagreement, Sherlock knew that John would not reply in approximately half an hour. Usually, it did not take more than a few minutes, but Sherlock had noticed it took John very much longer to reply when he was somehow disappointed in Sherlock. Sherlock didn't understand why, how could being upset make you incapable of answering somebody's texts? Very illogical.

While he waited, he resumed his googling. Forty minutes later Sherlock had learned that's it's not ok to hate fat people, that there was a tumblr tag trying to restore fat people's dignity, what food you should avoid if your intentions was not to be fat, and that birds carry a string of dna that makes it impossible for them to be fat. But nowhere he found anything that indicated that obesity could cause your kneecaps to collapse. He needed proof, for God's sake, visual proof. But John was obviously, somehow, incapable of answering. He may have hurt his fingers? No. Not very likely. 

He sent another text:

_I really hope this silence isn't because you erased the picture and is too ashamed to tell. /SH_

An hour went by.

When Sherlock hadn't gotten any answer he scrolled through his own texts to check if John might have said that he was going abroad. Maybe he left for the airport? It did happen that John was gone for a while without Sherlock noticing, John usually said it was Sherlock being arrogant for not noticing, while Sherlock chose to think of it as John being arrogant for obviously not being important enough to notice even when present. 

Having checked the texts, Sherlock didn't find anything that indicated travel, but he did find a message that was apparently sent after another disagreement. It said: 

_Sherlock, I can't believe that I have to actually teach you this, but seriously: you need to learn to apologise. After a fight, you say “I'm sorry”, and you're supposed to really MEAN it, see? /JW_

Oh, that. Sherlock had forgotten about that. He rolled his eyes. So very typical of John to try and teach him a lesson. He sent another text. 

_I'm sorry, John. And I really MEAN it. Need picture! /SH_

Despite the apology, John still didn't answer. The hours went by, and eventually Sherlock fell asleep, mobile in hand, curled up on the sofa.


	2. DAY 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little late with this, sorry, sorry, I know, but life and work and stuff came in between. Now the angst is piling up for our young lovers! No snogging yet but will get to smut eventually :)

The next morning, Sherlock woke up painfully curled into a ball on the sofa. He shifted from his side to his back, stretched out, opened his eyes and was wide awake. Half a second later, he turned his head to the left and stared at his mobile. The screen was black. 

Sherlock huffed. 

He rolled his eyes, sat up straight, and carelessly threw the phone behind him. He heard it hit the wall with a muffled thud, probably dropping down behind the sofa. Sherlock stood up. Why was it that John was this disappointed in him? He had even said he was sorry - even though there may be a small risk, due of his wording of choice, that the excuse came out... a bit ironic. 

Sherlock thrummed a little rhythm on his knee. He could really, really use those photos now. Stubborn, simple John, why would he be so complicated at a time like this? Now Sherlock would have to find another solution to the pending kneecaps and fat-problem. 

He sat absolutely still for thirty seconds, considering his options, then sprinted into the kitchen and started rummaging through the fridge. 

*****

On the other side of town, John slowly opened his eyes. At first, it looked like the room looked was covered in fog or smoke somehow. He blinked. Slowly. It was still all white. He rolled his eyes and then closed them again. Well, goodbye then, evil world. 

John obviously survived, because a couple of minutes later, when he tried looking again, his sight had cleared. The mist was probably some sort of aftershock from the knock out pills he suspected that this... Amanda? Was that really her real name? had given to him. Oh, Christ, what had they even been. He was hoping they weren't the kind that was used to put horses to sleep, John remembered that he had once heard that they could damage your eye sight severely if the dose was too high. 

A moment later, it also dawned on John that he was now neatly tied to a chair, as well as being gagged. Oh, great. That was just great. He seemed to manage to get into trouble perfectly well on his own, these days. So... um, right. Instead of having a... pleasant night, he was now – obviously - being held capture of a possibly, no, probably half-crazy... kidnapper? Um, killer? John sighed. Thinking of it, he wasn't really sure he actually wanted to gain awareness of what kind of an agenda a person who sedated others with horse drugs might have. John closed his eyes again while trying to figure out some kind of, well, game plan. In the meantime, he aimed for just looking... asleep. 

The plan didn't work out very well. 

“So, you're awake now?” was the first thing Amanda said as she entered the room.  
She smiled at John who still had his eyes closed but he strongly suspected that Amanda could see his irises dart back and forth behind the lids, giving away his awakeness.  
“It's ok, you know, you can stay awake as long as you don't make trouble.“ She leaned against the door frame and was now actually smiling at him. John squirmed a little in his chair. 

“Because if you do, I'll put you to sleep again, you understand?” Amanda continued, still looking very angelic. 

She eyed him up and down. 

“You really look well-fed, don't you?” she said, more to herself than to John. 

John didn't feel well-fed at all. In fact, he hadn't been eating – or drinking - anything for a very long time, and he was starting to feel really weak. He shook his head.

“You know, everything is relative,” Amanda said, “And yes, sweetie, you really are well-fed. I think I will have to give you some water, though,” Amanda added. “I don't want you dying on me. Not yet, at least.”

Well, that was some sort of good news, John thought. His kidnapper was planning on keeping him alive for... well, what purpose still remained unclear, he had to admit, but at least a little longer. While Amanda was in the kitchen John weigh the possibility of her having been added something, probably poisonous or sedating, to the water against the fact that no human can survive for longer than somewhere around 60 hours without water, and considering the fact he had no idea for how long he was out... He was going to take the risk. 

“Here you go,”Amanda said and put a straw in the cup. “But don't enjoy yourself too much – you won't go to the bathroom for a while.” John didn't care much since his mouth was as dry as a desert, and greedily managed to suck up some water from the cup, even though he was still gagged. 

“Now you know what it feels like,” she said. “Not having been eaten for over thirty hours, and away from your loved one for very long, not knowing if you'll ever be seeing him again. I want you to feel all this, so you'll understand why I do this. 'Cause you have had all of that, John, for thirty three years, and you honestly didn't appreciate it much and now you'll share. I'm just dividing the resources a little.” 

“He's very frequent texter, your boyfriend, by the way.” Amanda added and smirked a little. 

How frequent? John wanted to ask. Oh, if he had only been able to know for how many hours he'd been out, if they weren't that many yet, Sherlock probably wouldn't have found out that he was gone ye... - oh shit, it'd probably take Sherlock days to realise that John had even left, considering that that stupid, self-absorbed maniac hadn't noticed when he was at a conference for a bloody week... The thought twisted John's stomach a little more than it should have done. It wasn't that much fun to wanting to sort of... be with, or wanting to spend time with, or at least trust someone who barely cared you existed. John's heart sank when he realised that his best hope was that Sherlock would want something that he had, or that he wanted something done – a phone number he had taken a note on, or that they were out of milk. That was probably what all those texts said – John, buy milk. 2% fat. 

While Amanda took the emptied cup from John, her phone rang. As she started to speak, she headed for the kitchen and closed the door behind her. John could still hear part of her conversation, though, and the rhythm of the foreign language was familiar, as well as some of the words. If he wasn't mistaken Amanda spoke Pashto, one of the official languages of Afghanistan. He listened in a little more. Yes, it was definitely Pastho, He knew a few words in the language. He had heard her say 'doctor', that word he knew for sure. And maybe 'family' as well. Even more less likely he had heard 'passport', but of that he wasn't sure at all. Anyhow, he had no idea what he would make out of it all. 

When Amanda had finished her phone call, she returned to the living room. John could just follow her with his eyes. A phone vibrated on a shelf on the other side of the room. Amanda picked it up.

“Oh, isn't it the eager boyfriend again,” she said, smiling a little. “He's sent you over thirty texts the past few hours, you know.” 

She leaned in closer to John. 

“I think we'll have to discuss these matters a little closer,” she said, and removed the gag. 

“Um, well, he's not my boyfriend,” was the first words that came out of John's mouth. Oh, that's just brilliant, Watson. Utterly logical. You're kidnapped, and haven't been able to speak for God knows how long and the first thing you choose to say is that? Really. What about... um, why are you doing this?

“Um... why are you doing this?” John spoke out loud, clearing his throat a little. 

“You guys seem to have a really special relationship,” Amanda said, continuing her train of thought. “He writes really weird texts, your man... What is this even?” She frowned and read it out loud:

_Lights have gone out. That might have something to do with me forgetting to pay the bill. If you were a cat, I'd be using your skin for creating electricity now. /SH_

“What is he? A cannibal? And why on earth does he sign his texts? That's what my grandpa would do... I bet his smileys still have noses, too.”

John huffed a little at the thought of Sherlock Holmes ever using a bloody smiley. 

“No, he's---”

“Is he really, really old, this Sherlock guy?” Amanda interrupted. “I mean, the signing of his texts and his name is also really old school. Do you date him because he's going to die soon and you'll be the only heir? ”

“No, um, as I said, we're not dating. He's my flatmate. I spoke about him yesterday, I believe.” John felt his ears turning a little pink. What an interesting time to be embarrassed over such a thing. 

“Oh yeah, of course he is. A roomie that sends over a hundred texts in a day? Yeah. That's a believable story. I'll also remind you of the fact that yesterday asked me for advice on how to solve your conflict. About twenty times.” 

“Um, did he say that the lights had gone out?” John got worried that the heat would have gone, too. It was in the middle of December and Baker Street tended to get extremely cold and Sherlock would never think of dressing properly for such an occasion. 

Amanda smirked. 

“No, John, he's not cold. Don't you worry.” Just listen:

_The loss of electricity was merely a side effect of me re-arranging the cables in your room. On the bright side, we have a very well lit bathroom, now. /SH_

John assumed the pun wasn't intended. 

“What do you want to release me?” he asked, trying to get something more... sustainable than the status of his bloody relationship to Sherlock come out of this conversation with his kidnapper, for God's sake. “Money? I have some contacts at the Scotland Yard...”

“I know,” Amanda smiled. “That's why you're so perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“Can't tell you that yet, darling. The plans are not settled. But you'll know, eventually. Maybe.”

*****

While Sherlock was totally absorbed by conducting an experiment with the intention of finally proving that fat could break human skeleton - to get proper results he used a mixture of butter, nutmeg and sun seed oil on top of tiny, fragile chicken bones - his phone rang. Without letting go of the bowls with his eyes, he reached out for his mobile and answered it. 

“John.” It wasn't a question. 

“Hi, Sherlock, um, no, it's Greg, actually.” Lestrade cleared his throat as an awkward silence followed. “Are you... um, were you expecting it to be John?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock poured a little more nutmeg into the largest bowl and stirred. The clinking of the spoon against metal sounded like some sort of industrial noise on Lestrade's part. 

“Yes, um, yeah, that's right, of course. I just thought you might, er... Well, where are you?”

“Baker Street.” Sherlock kept stirring. 

“Oh, ok, it sounded like you were at some factory or lab or something of-”

“If you don't have a proper errand I'd prefer that this conversation ended now.”

“Oh, right, yes, um, I do have a question for you, it's a about the, um, obese woman who died yesterday. Kneecaps, you know. Would you please come down to the station?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock hung up on Lestrade. He threw all the remaining butter into the bowl and put on a lid. He shook it and thought that if the results didn't come out as expected, he'd probably have some new interesting mould for his collection. 

When Sherlock came out the front door of the building, the street was empty of taxis. He quickly made the decision to walk towards the Yard, despising wasting time. While walking down the street in long strides, Sherlock kept his hand in his pocket, fingers on his mobile. He wanted to make absolutely sure that he would't miss any text that might come in, and he trusted his sensitive fingertips more than his hearing. If the phone vibrated, he would never miss it. 

The phone didn't vibrate, though. After a few minutes walk, he pulled it out from his pocket and sent another text to John:

_Lestrade called me down to the station. I may need help. Would you come? /SH_

He oversaw the texts sent to John. 43 of them now. None had been answered. 

*****

“Top o' the mo'ning to ye,” Lestrade said, looking tired when Sherlock entered the Yard. “What have you been up to?” he continued, looking a little suspicious. 

“Nothing that I will tell you. On what matter did you call me here?” Sherlock stood, spine very straight, in the doorway. 

Lestrade shot him a glance. “Why am I not surprised?” He said. “Where's Watson? We need him here.”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know? You don't know why I'm not surprised, or you don't know where John is?”

Sherlock glanced at him. If looks could kill, Lestrade would have been dead, buried and resurrected, all in two seconds blank. Lestrade bit his lip. Clearly, Sherlock wasn't able to take some mocking today. He cleared his throat and continued. 

“I thought you lads were practically inseparable these days. Why won't you call him? He could really come in handy on this scene that we're going to see, you know,” Lestrade said. 

“I didn't come to discuss this matter,” Sherlock bit back. “I'd like you to present me the new evidence you claimed has surfaced.” 

*****

During that afternoon, Sherlock ran around town dragging Lestrade with him. They went to the morgue, where Sherlock once again tried to prove his hypothesis about the fat and the kneecaps, and once again, got proven wrong. He angrily pulled out his phone and texted John, while Lestrade tried to milder the damages Sherlock had brutally done on the corpse. 

_This absence of yours may be the beginning of the end of my career. Get down here with that picture. /SH_

John didn't text back. 

Sherlock and Lestrade ran to the church where the victim had been listed, where Sherlock by playing an ex-priest of the Russian Orthodox Church – with a flawless accent, he had to give himself that - tried to get hold of the paperwork that stated that the victim had been, indeed, a member of the choir. When the caretaker was almost convinced to give Sherlock the papers, Lestrade destroyed the whole set up by by happenstance mentioning that he was police. In fury, Sherlock went round the church wall and sent another text to John. 

_John. If you would have been here, instead of the thick headed Lestrade, you would at least have known that you weren't clever enough to say something, and therefore kept quiet. /SH_

John didn't text back. 

Sherlock took off. While running, he sent John a string of incoherent texts of random information, almost as if he was taking notes to himself. He realised that that was just what John usually did. Could you actually miss your notepad this much? 

The following hours, Sherlock swirled around town with the exhausted Lestrade five steps behind. When they had visited a large Natwest office downtown where Sherlock casually had tried to break into the vault by poiting a gun – Lestrade's own – to the D.I:s head claiming he was his hostage, Lestrade gave up. 

“What's with you?” he hissed when they got out on the street again, after having had to explain to the severely scared bank staff that he was actually police, and would now put this babbling, dark haired maniac in custody. “You're even worse than usual today! How could you... why did you even threat that poor girl with the gun? She hadn't done anything!” 

“The case is boring me, Lestrade,” Sherlock answered slyly. “Those 'clues' you came up with this morning seemed to be of no use at all, and I am not very sure that I will follow through with this. I'm starting to think this is not a murderer we're talking about here” 

Lestrade's eyes narrowed as leaned in closer. 

“I probably shouldn't be telling you this, you arse, but the thing is that the success - or downfall - of my entire career depends on wether I solve this shitty case or not. My superiors have threatened to kick me out of the Yard unless I settle matters. So, Sherlock, since I unfortunately need you nore than ever, I'll ask you straight out: how much does it cost to make you do this for me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Please, Lestrade, money was never an issue for the Holmses.”

“As I didn't know,” Lestrade muttered. “Neither you or your brother could be bought for the sum any other human being would gladly accept. So, what do you need?”

“Maybe...” Sherlock said lazily, “I suppose I could do it if you found me my notepad.”

“Your notepad?” Lestrade scratched his head. “Do you really have one? I've never even seen you with a pen? Would it be ok with any notepad? Can I buy you a new one?”

“No. John. John's my notepad.”

“John's your notepad? You need John? Where is he, then?”

“I don't know. ”

“So you're saying that if I find John for you, you'll finish the case?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes. 

“Ok, then. But are you, by the way, sure that Mycroft didn't offered him a job again, and John actually moved without you noticing?”

*****

John woke up to the unmistakable sound of someone opening up Skype. He was really dizzy now, and obviously gagged again while he'd passed out. In a minute, Amanda was talking in Pastho, this time on her computer. John could grasp little half sentences of the conversation, but not enough for something to actually make sense. He was seriously dizzy now, probably because he hadn't eaten in, what could it be, closer to forty hours? Yesterday, they hadn't had lunch or dinner, and he didn't even get to drink the tea when he had gotten home... Oh Sherlock, why did you have been so stubborn? 

John wished that he could have read all of Sherlock's texts. Or just reply to one of them. What had Amanda said? Over thirty of them. They should be to closer to forty by now, John had heard the vibrations while he was half asleep. 

He opened an eye. His phone now laid barely three inches from him, but being tied to the chair made it impossible to reach. He could almost see the display, though. Oh, Sherlock. John wondered what he thought about right now. Probably some formula. Or why maggots didn't practise intercourse. John wondered, though, why Sherlock had sent all of those texts. Since not being, well, Sherlock, he couldn't figure it out, but his heart lightened a little when he thought that fifty texts were a lot if you just wanted to insult someone. Or ask them to buy milk, for that matter. Then he huffed. Sherlock had once texted a suspect for two days, counting the messages to 457 when the second night came, and that was just to say “you are wrong. The airplane can not fly itself.” Sherlock cared only about himself, John reminded himself. It probably was the milk, after all. 

Amanda came in from kitchen, eyeing him up and down. She narrowed her eyes when John made an exhausted sound that he intended to sound like ”please”.

“Do you promise to keep still?” Amanda asked. 

John nodded. Amanda removed the gag. 

“Um, I...” he said, a little scared by his own voice – it sounded so weak. “I was wondering if I... if there is any possibility that I could get something to eat. I'm very, very hungry.”

“There are so many people in the world that are hungrier than you,” Amanda said. “You, Doctor Watson, always had everything – food on your table, money, lovers, health. ”

John thought about his bad leg and shoulder. About his PTSD, and his inability to keep food down when times were bad. 

“That's not really tru---” he tried to protest, but Amanda just laughed.

“Yes, my dear Watson, it is. You went to war because you wanted to go to war. You left England because you believed in Blair supporting Bush's war on terrorism, and that the citizens of Afghanistan needed you, a soldier. But you, you're the invader, John. You're the winner. Your house wasn't burned to the ground, your family didn't die, and you weren't thrown in jail because of kissing this Sherlock in public. As I said: it's pay back time.”

Amanda tied the scarf tight over his mouth again. She slapped his cheek, hard, and went to put on her jacket. “And don't worry,” she said while looking for a pair of gloves, “you'll live to suffer through this.”

She left the flat. 

John contemplated what she had just said. Well, it was true that before Afghanistan, he hadn't suffered much, no. He'd just been a lad who liked to have beer and play football, but after the war... John had only been twenty four when he joined the army, he'd just earned his doctor license, and he hadn't known much about life. But he became a doctor because others told him he had a nurturing kind, and he'd always wanted to help people... And when you've had a child of five years die in your arms when you're desperately trying to stop the blood pump out of her totally wrecked leg, you just weren't going to be the same ever again, wether you voted for Labour or Tories. 

John's head sank to his chest. Since he, on the contrary from what Amanda said, didn't have much of a family, friends or lovers, all of his hope to ever survive this came down to that egomanic, crazy, spoiled and sort of wonderful flatmate of his. 

*****

John didn't realise he had passed out until he his phone suddenly vibrated and mercilessly pulled him back to reality. He could still see his phone, and if he managed to reach out, just a little, he would see the text on the screen before it faded away... He leaned over as far as he dared without tipping the chair over, and in the corner of his eye, he read: 

_John. I will play you anything you like on the violin, even Bach, even though I find it too easy and therefore dull. /SH_

He trembled a little. Sherlock. It wasn't about milk. And it was the last in a row of almost sixty texts. If John didn't know better he would dare to think that that stubborn idiot actually missed him a little. Bach... Because of his simplicity Sherlock despised Bach, and was very offended once when John requested him. Offering that was almost close to something that could be interpreted as an excuse. 

Bach. And Sherlock had obviously at least realised John was gone. But couldn't he hurry a little? Couldn't he use a percent or two of that Holmesian mind to set out to rescue John? Was he injured somehow? Oh well, thinking about it, probably not. Probably just 'incapacitated' - from not having any milk to his tea - on the sofa. 

The phone vibrated again.

_Or I will keep quiet, if you like that better. Please. /SH_

John swallowed. Coming from Sherlock Holmes, that was the biggest of endearments. 

*****

Eventually, Sherlock returned home. He was in a sort of hopeless state of mind that reminded him of his most bored times, but still wasn't quite the same. Sherlock slowly entered 221 B. He shredded off his coat, shook the ice cold almost-snow out of his curls, kicked off his shoes and flopped himself onto the sofa. 

Sherlock picked up his phone from his pocket, studying the texts sent to John over the past 24 hours. 74. A new record, he noted. The old one was on 71, the long silence caused by Sherlock telling John's girlfriend at the time that John once, severely intoxicated, had told Sherlock that he suspected that he may prefer to sleep with men. This time, Sherlock hadn't even told anyone anything. 

Something deep down in his stomach was starting to gnaw. What if John had actually left, for good? Sherlock usually never regretted anything – he didn't need to, because he was practically almost always right – but something told him he'd been very... a bit not nice to John, yesterday. But John knew he'd get like that when he hadn't eaten for long, didn't he? They usually just ate in silence, and then John would like Sherlock again. Sherlock folded his hands over his chest.

Baker Street was very quiet. In the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw one of John's jumpers that was hanging over the edge of their armchair. His phone rested nice and quiet on top of his stomach, and Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to resist the urge to fling the bloody thing out the window because of its silence. 

Why wouldn't he just text back? Sherlock's stomach flinched. Was there some parameter about living together that Sherlock had missed? Some unwritten rule about how to ask for forgiveness?  
Of course, he had been sarcastic about it, but he had excused himself later on, hadn't he? 

To be on the safe side, he sent the 74th text for today, one that said: 

_I'm very sorry for being rude earlier, John, please, come home soon. /SH_

But as all the others, it remained un-replied. What if John actually had left for good? 

Sherlock picked up his violin. He let the bow slide over the instrument to form Bach's third sonata. Pacing around the room, he was thinking fiercely. If he actually had missed some idiotic rule about being flatmates or friends or something general about forgiveness, John would have explained eventually, wouldn't he? He always did. Even through the times Sherlock was stubborn and sulky, John always took the time to explain to him the things that he actually didn't understand, such as social game play. 

Sherlock swivelled around the flat, violin in hand. He though about how he'd always managed on his own earlier, how much he used to like to fall asleep alone, in his own bed. 

But that was before John. That was before John sometimes tucked Sherlock in on the sofa. Before John “accidentally” left his sweater on the armrest every night for Sherlock to smell while falling asleep. Before John texting him when he was on a case to see where he was, if he would be home soon. If he was alright. Sherlock was a man who wouldn't give up his work for anything, ever, and he had lived thirty one years believing that he was perfectly, no, exceptionally fine without any kind of human contact. And before John, he had been. 

But John had happened. And John could never be made un-happened. The small things: even though Sherlock often protested he deep down appreciated John making tea for him, John's fussing over him, and feeling the warmth of John's arm under his neck when he'd fallen asleep on the sofa. And when waking up, resting his head almost against John's chest, John would always say “I didn't want to disturb you. You looked so peaceful.” 

With the happening of John came the – unfortunately even very pleasant - feeling of how wonderful it was to have someone caring for you, just a little. Sherlock had sort of realised that before John, no one had really cared for him, ever. 

Sherlock never wanted to have to imagine an “after John”. 

He put down his violin. Shot a glance over to the table. Phone black and quiet. Outside, the first snow of December embedded the world in white. 

That night, Sherlock fell asleep on the floor, mobile in hand and face buried deep down in one of John's most beloved jumpers.


End file.
